Pause by Kylie Scott

CHAPTER TWO

The first sign that something is wrong is the silence. It’s so complete the house seems to echo with it. No music. No chatter. Nothing. Mom hates the quiet and her car is here, so I know she’s home. It’s been over a week since I visited Leif and my outlook has not particularly improved. Nor will it be improving in the next short while. Because there’s a bump like someone knocking into a piece of furniture and it’s followed by a giggle.

Oh, God. She wouldn’t have. Surely.

Then my worst nightmare comes true. Assorted friends and acquaintances leap out from behind various objects shouting, “Happy birthday!”

Fuck no. Kill me now.

I paste a smile on my face as Mom steps out from the kitchen. Her grin is huge and hopeful. People hug me while someone presses a glass of champagne into my hand. There’s Zola, Lucy, Cho, and James from the inn where I used to work. My old neighbors, Julia and Will. Erin and her girlfriend Angie from the tennis club where I used to play. And last but not least, Briar from college. Thank goodness she’s here.

No wonder Mom said she wouldn’t be available to pick me up. And I look a mess, having only braided my wet hair after showering post hydrotherapy. Same goes for my pair of denim cutoffs and an old blouse that are more yard work than surprise birthday party. Glam I am not.

Forget pink champagne, I require hard liquor.

The team from the inn hangs back after offering felicitations. There’s a nervous sort of energy to them. Fair enough, considering their boss is my former best friend Celine, the husband fucker. No wonder I no longer have a job. As if I could ever go back there. Us both sleeping with the same man makes for quite the conflict of interest in the workplace. Not that I’ve slept with Ryan, or anyone, in the last ten or so months. How awkward.

My old neighbors are likewise an awkward situation waiting to happen. Any and all previous socializing was done as part of a couple. Picnics, potlucks, things like that. We were like mirror images of each other. Two upwardly mobile professional around-thirty-year-old couples. And I am now distinctly uncoupled, out of work, and have mobility issues. No wonder I didn’t want a party. Not that anyone asked me. Hear me whine.

One close friend of mine in days of yore was Ryan’s sister Natasha. But she’s been suspiciously quiet since I woke up. It’s amazing how people prefer to disappear over facing their own foibles. Or their family’s foibles. I’m certainly not immune to engaging in this behavior, but it doesn’t make it any easier to be on the receiving end.

Although Mom has been cautious with the guest list, everyone here knows that my husband banged one of my best friends. Awesome. Whelp, no point in avoiding my guests. I square my shoulders and face the crowd with a smile.

The question is, who are you when your job, your relationship, and one of your best friends are gone? I’m adrift in a sea of what the fuck. I’d like to think that Celine will come crawling on her hands and knees, begging me to return to working at the inn. But the fact is, I’m not irreplaceable. And they’ve had over half a year to replace me. At this point, I doubt I’ll even be getting a well-deserved glowing reference.

“So good to see you!” Erin smacks a kiss on my cheek.

“You too,” I say.

Angie grabs my hand and presses it to her bulging belly. “Say hello.”

“Hello, little one,” I say dutifully. It’s impossible not to be happy for Erin and Angie. There’s such an air of joy to them, a feeling of growth. They also don’t give a crap that Ryan isn’t standing at my side. What a relief. I don’t know them very well, but what I do know I like.

“You look distinctly uncomfortable,” says Briar. She’s a short, curvy black woman with killer style and a law degree. “Is it physical or emotional?”

“Both.”

“Ah. Sit down and drink up then.”

“Good idea.”

We grab some chairs in the corner of the dining room, facing the table laden with tastefully wrapped gifts and small decorative plates of appetizers. Hummus on slices of cucumber, fruit and prosciutto bites, and a cheese board. Mom believes in healthy food to speed my recovery and protein to build up my muscle mass. To balance this, there’s also a beautiful cake with buttercream frosting surrounded by berries. When she passes by with a plate of goodies, I grab her spare hand. “Thanks for this.”

She delicately snorts in a ladylike manner. “Please, you hate it. But life goes on. I wasn’t going to just let you ignore your birthday. Happy twenty-seventh, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.”

And despite giving my shabby outfit a skeptical glance, she just nods. God bless Mom. She can’t help herself. We really are every bit as judgmental as Leif says. And there I go again, thinking about him. It’s not helpful. Though at least it doesn’t hurl me into a pit of despair like contemplating my husband does.

Interestingly, Dad isn’t here. But Dad hates any socializing that doesn’t take place on the golf course. Perhaps I’m more like my antisocial father these days. Though I’m never going to play golf.

At any rate, Leif was right: my mom in action is a beautiful thing. I have deep thoughts about Leif more often than I should. I’d been so embarrassed by Ryan showing up and trying to start a fight that I got out of there pronto after he left. No one needs that kind of drama in their life, or the person who invited it in.

On the other hand, knowing someone supportive who’d survived the same accident was nice. Comforting. Even if it was brief. Perhaps I’ll find the courage to see him again. Maybe. In the meantime, I’m going to stop thinking about him. Right now.

“I should go put on something more suitable,” I say, not moving an inch.

Briar crosses her legs. “Catch your breath first.”

“If I’d known this was happening I’d have at least shaved my legs.”

“Never mind. I hear the Viking look is in this season.”

“Nice.” I laugh. “Are you suggesting I could braid them?”

Her brows rise. “Now that would be something.”

Over by the front windows, the group from the inn is huddled together. Lots of side-eye going on. Lots of whispering. Ugh.

“Ignore them,” says my friend.

“Have you heard from her lately?” I ask.

Briar, Celine, and I met as neighboring dorm buddies and moved up to sharing an apartment in our senior year. Many a fun time was had. I met Ryan when we were freshmen. We’ve been together ever since. And it wasn’t perfect, but it was good. There were times we had to work at it. Times when we had to fight for it. But we always did and I thought we’d be together forever. Right up until we weren’t. Talk about life slapping you in the face.

“Not since I told her exactly what I thought of her so-called unfortunate lapse of judgment. If she expected me to be understanding, then she was severely disappointed.” Briar takes another sip of her drink. “I don’t care how scared and exhausted either of them were. You don’t open your legs to comfort your still very much alive friend’s husband.”

“Hmm.”

“What does hmm mean?”

I sigh. “She texted me again the other day. I didn’t respond. It was the usual, ‘We’re both so sorry. Neither of us meant to hurt you. Please try and understand. We still love you and care about you very much.’ I think it’s the ‘us’ and the ‘we’ that aggravates me. The continued implied coupledom. The unity. He’s my fucking husband. Or he was. I don’t know what he is now.”

Briar just shakes her head.

“He was so sorry, you know? He even cried,” I say. “I can’t remember the last time he cried. When his grandma died, maybe?”

“And?”

“I’ve tried to understand. I mean, it must have been hell for him, going through all of that.” My shoulders slump. “I’ve tried to put myself in his position and imagine if it was him on that bed and me not knowing if he’d ever wake up. And even if he did wake up, not knowing if he’d be the same person.”

She sighs.

“I still wouldn’t turn to his damn friend,” I add. “I wouldn’t disrespect him that way.”

“Exactly.” Briar tries for a smile, but it doesn’t quite work. “She always did use too many exclamation points when she messaged or texted.”

“Ugh. Yeah. Wait, are we being unnecessarily petty?”

“I debate your use of ‘unnecessary.’”

“Lady, you make me laugh. You know, he’s been pushing for me to move back home and do couple’s counseling,” I say, staring off at nothing. “But I’m not sure we can come back from this. How can I possibly trust him again?”

She takes my hand in a warm grip. “Anna, I’m going to send you the name of a local divorce lawyer that I recommend. My cousin used her a few years back.”

I pause.

“No pressure. Just in case. It’s always good to have a backup plan.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Deep breath in, slow breath out. My parents have been married for thirty years and I can’t even manage two. The thought of taking this final step is . . . shit. Not just failing so spectacularly, but having everyone know. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. It’s like there’s a crack inside of me widening a little more every day and out pours all of the hope and love and everything that ever meant anything to me. My marriage has been upended and my reality has been reset—I can’t keep up.

“Is this why you’re back in town for a few days?” I ask.

“That, birthday cake, and the annual sale at Braun’s Books. You know I never miss that.” She grins. “You needed to know your options. And that you’re not alone.”

“Thank you.”

“You could come back to New York with me.” She taps her elbow gently against mine. “Start over in the big city, away from all of this nonsense. What do you say?”

“That’s a big move. I don’t know.”

“Could be fun. Even if it was just for a little while.”

“Yeah, but do you remember how I used to drive you crazy when we shared a room back in college?”

“You color coded my wardrobe.”

“I told you not to give me the edible.”

She laughs. “I thought it might relax you. Little did I know that your version of relaxation is organizing someone else’s life.”

“I’m not that bad.”

A snort from the lady. “I beg to differ.”

“Well, my control freak ways have had a setback. Rest assured.”

“Hmm,” says Briar. “I have yet to see any proof. You look pretty good to me.”

I slump back in the seat. “The proof is my life. My whole being now is . . . I don’t even know the word. Boom maybe? Kapow perhaps?”

“Your life blew up, huh?”

“Just a little.”

“As long as you’re not dwelling on it and feeling sorry for yourself,” says Briar.

Now it’s my turn to laugh. I’m such a basic bitch these days.

Suddenly, I hear a commotion in the foyer. Mom’s mouth is a perfect ‘o’ and Ryan stands there with a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. Once again, turning up without an invitation. There’s no way Mom would have given him one. But he knows if he just shows up, she doesn’t know how to say no.

“Quelle surprise,” says Briar.

Cho gasps. James already has his cell in hand. Celine is going to know about this in approximately two seconds, given the speed at which James’s thumbs are moving.

That’s the other thing about all of this—I don’t quite believe it’s over between them. That it was a one-time thing. A mistake. Because whether or not they’re currently having sex, I think they’re still involved on some level. Each and every time I see my husband, the guilt in his eyes seems to have risen. Same too the resentment over how difficult I’m being about an unfortunate accident. His words, not mine. And he’s not referring to the car accident. Hell no.

“Happy birthday,” Ryan says, then smiles all hopeful like and bends down by my chair. He’s so handsome. Dark hair and blue eyes. Tall and strong. Everything I thought I could ever want. But I don’t see him the same way anymore. The trust and friendship are missing. The love and fidelity. He threw it all away. “These are for you, honey.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“Can we talk for a minute?” he asks. “In private?”

“Sure.” The weight of every eye in the room rests heavy on my shoulders. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”

He frowns briefly, as if he was hoping for my bedroom.

“Can you pass me a vase, please?” I point to the top shelf in the pantry. The blooms are big and bold and a perfect dark red. I fetch the shears to cut the ribbon holding them together and Ryan sets the vase beside me. “Thank you.”

“Your mother didn’t invite me, but I heard about it from Julia and Will.” His voice is tight and tense, leaving no doubt that my mom has done him wrong.

I just nod. Given the situation, she did what she thought was best. I’m not making excuses for her just to appease him. Bet he wishes my dad were here. Dad’s his biggest fan and can always be depended upon to make him feel welcome—which made for some uncomfortable situations over the past few months. It also does nothing to address the situation, being that if I don’t want him here, then I should ask him to go. Only I’m not sure what I want, what with being a heart betrayed and divided, so here we are.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“I’m listening.”

It’s hard to look at him. Like he’s a stranger, unknown and untrustworthy. Guess he feels the same way because his jaw shifts and his gaze wanders. To the fridge, along the counter, up to the window. Everywhere but at me.

As if there hasn’t been enough furtive and shady behavior already. The apology for following me to Leif’s was grudging and half-hearted at best. Made only after I refused to answer his calls or respond to his texts for several days. This is what we’ve become . . . this ruin. Though he doesn’t have a hair out of place. His white button-down shirt is immaculate. Same goes for his pinstripe pants. No tie. He would have removed it in the car after he left work. I can just picture him tugging it free and casting it aside. The tension in his broad shoulders easing the farther he drives away from work. I know him so well, but none of that seems to matter these days.

I fill the vase with water and lift the first rose. No thorns. The florist must have dealt with them. Too bad someone can’t do that for my life. “What is it, Ryan?”

“You haven’t heard . . . never mind. Of course you haven’t.”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

His face is both empty and set. Giving nothing away. “Celine’s pregnant.”

Everything stops.

“Anna . . .”

I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, trying to pull myself together. It’s like I’ve been sucker punched. My brain is reeling, the information refusing to sink in, to make sense. “I really wasn’t expecting that.”

He moves to come closer but I hold up a hand to stop him. “Please, honey. It doesn’t have to affect you and me.”

There’s a stabbing pain inside of me. My heart, I think. Like the last piece of it is breaking, shattering into smithereens. I ran out of tears a while back. Our love has become this brittle thing I couldn’t fix even if I wanted to. That’s the truth. “We were going to try for a baby this year,” I say in a broken voice.

A little human, half him, half me. A family of our own. It might have been hormones, but the thought used to thrill and delight me. And now he’s done that with Celine. A bridesmaid at our wedding. One of my oldest and most trusted friends.

“We still can, if you want,” he says.

I wrinkle my nose. “Holy shit. Are you serious?”

“Yes.” And he is, God help him. “There’s no need for that kind of language.”

“How far along is she?”

His lips morph into a thin line. Which is answer enough.

“Four months,” I say helpfully. “This is where you say ‘four months’—and tell me that she’s just starting to show. Because you swore you only had sex the one time, remember? A terrible, horrible mistake that just happened once. You remember the story. I’d been unconscious for six months. The doctors had just suggested flicking off the switch and you turned to each other for consolation. So Celine should be four months pregnant.”

Only she’s not, she’s less than that. I can see it all over his face. The last little bit of hope inside of me dies. It sucks to be right. I wanted our marriage to be stronger than this. For our love to mean more than this. But it isn’t and it doesn’t and I’m done. You can only volunteer to get knocked down so many times unless you enjoy living on your knees.

I cross to the sink, taking the flowers with me.

“Anna—”

Mom’s waste disposal roars to life at the flick of the switch. She really should get it fixed. It clunks and clatters and sounds like it’s coming apart. More than loud enough to drown out the worst of my husband’s useless bullshit protestations that I’ve heard a thousand times. How he still loves me. How he’s sorry. How he never meant for this to happen. How we can still make this right if I would just let him fix things. Only some things can’t be fixed. Shouldn’t be fixed.

Other people come to the kitchen door to see what’s happening, but I ignore them. Awkward and embarrassing and whatever—I don’t care. If we have an audience, so what? I haven’t had control over any other aspect of my life lately. Let them see my meltdown in all its furious shambolic glory. Let them witness the final death throes of my supposed great love. It sure makes for one hell of a dramatic birthday. Forget party games, spectacle is the go. It’s his own fault for coming here and doing this now. The idiot.

One at a time, I feed the beautiful, glorious roses into the machine. It churns and crunches and gurgles and grinds them into a gooey pulp. And I don’t stop until every last rose is gone. It’s cathartic, really. Satisfying. Like some weird piece of domestic performance art. And I’m not even artistic.

The silence rings in my ears when I finally turn off the waste disposal. “I want a divorce.”

For once, Ryan doesn’t say a thing.

Larsen and Sons Tattoo Parlor is only a few blocks away from Leif’s condo in the same cool urban area with busy streets. Purse on my shoulder and bottle of single-malt scotch in hand, I head inside. The buzz of the drill sets my teeth on edge, but everything is clean and orderly. Not even my mother could find fault with the place. There’s an old grandfather clock and a green chaise. Lots of framed drawings on the walls. And rock ’n’ roll plays over the sound system. Some old Tom Petty song, I think.

At the counter stands a woman with beautiful dark curly hair and a whole lot of ink on her umber skin. She seems flustered and sets the phone down as she asks, “Can I help you?”

“No,” a familiar voice yells from farther back. “But I can.”

The woman raises a brow and gives him a questioning look over her shoulder.

“I’m here to see Leif,” I say with a hesitant smile.

He’s standing beside a massage-type table giving me his devil-may-care grin. Or maybe it’s the scotch he’s smiling at.

My hands shake from nerves. “Hi.”

“You come bearing gifts.”

“Yes, I do.”

There’s a large man with gray hair laid out on the table in front of Leif with a fresh tattoo happening on his left arm. He turns his head and looks me over with interest. Same goes for the other tattooist working at the back table on a woman. Only this man isn’t a stranger. He’s the one who stood watching while Ryan tried to pick a fight with Leif. The one from in front of the condo that day. Awesome. This is so embarrassing.

“You’re turning pink,” says Leif, head cocked with obvious interest. “What does it mean when you turn pink?”

Oh, God.

“Don’t be an ass,” says the woman with the fabulous hair. “Come on through, you’re fine. I’m Tessa.”

“Anna. Nice to meet you.”

Tessa pulls out a chair close to Leif and directs me to it. I like Tessa. She takes in the collection of small pink scars on my face and the one dissecting the edge of my upper lip, but doesn’t dwell on them. I put on makeup, but didn’t go overboard trying to cover them. They’re part of me now. Time to accept and move on. My face is different, my body is changed, and my life is altered. It’s not the end of the world. It just feels like it sometimes. As for how I feel about Leif, I’m still deciding. The other dude keeps working on the lady’s back, sneaking looks at me. Fair enough. I’m a little curious about who he is too. Without another word, Tessa heads out the back door. I’m kind of sorry to see her go. I could use all the emotional support I can get. Girl power and all that.

“I’m sorry,” says Leif. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

I settle into the chair, placing the scotch on my lap. “Yes you did.”

The big guy on the table, the customer, just snorts.

“Help me out here, Art. You’ve been married for roughly forever,” says Leif. “What do I do?”

“When in doubt, apologize. Profusely.”

“Wise words,” says the other dude. “I’m Ed, Leif’s brother.”

“Anna. Hello.”

He gives me a chin tip. Now that I know they’re brothers, it’s obvious. Like Leif, he’s a very handsome man. The same amber eyes and dark blond hair. A heavily tattooed body that’s muscular, long, and lean. Must be some great genetics going on in that family. Unlike Leif, however, Ed is wearing a wedding ring. I try not to worry about what he must think of me. But he can’t be happy about a married woman causing trouble for his brother. No one would willingly welcome this nonsense into their life.

It took me a week since my birthday to work up the nerve to see Leif again. Sad but true. But kicking off the divorce proceedings made it a busy week.

“How have you been?” asks Leif, eschewing further apologies.

“Good,” I say, my smile weak. “You?”

He just nods. Conversation is so not flowing. The tattoo gun buzzes to life and he starts in on the piece in progress. There’s a lot more blood than I imagined. But every so often Leif wipes the skin clean, and his work suddenly comes into view. The design is an old-style compass, beautiful and ornate. Above the northern point is a woman’s name, ‘Glenda.’ I wonder if that’s his wife of forever. I hope so.

“You haven’t told her she looks pretty,” says Art, the relationship specialist.

Leif takes in my flowy white blouse and faded blue ankle jeans with a pair of flat black leather mules. Nice but not fancy. It only took me three hours to settle on it. Why it mattered so much I’d rather not say. Friends is great and friends is fine. Thinking of anything more would be foolish. No matter how attracted I might be to the man.

“She always looks good,” he says.

Nice to hear, but I’m still not sure whether I’m welcome. Or what to do. Showing up at his job might be just as great an idea as turning up at his home. What was I thinking? I could just hand over the bottle, apologize, and leave. He and I don’t need to be spending time together. It was my initial plan, but now words are a tangle on my tongue. Or maybe I’m looking for excuses to stay.

“I should be finished in about ten minutes,” says Leif, giving me a gentle smile. “We could try giving the whole eating-a-meal-together thing another try?”

I relax back against the seat. “Sure. That would be great.”

“Better,” grunts Art. “There’s hope for you yet.”

The weird thing about being down and out for seven months is how the world moves on without you. Great-Aunt Susan died of breast cancer. Angie and Erin finally had IVF success. A childhood hero of mine died in a drowning accident. My cousin Jack got married. A new president was elected. So many things, big and small. Then there are the movies and songs that come on TV or the radio that everyone knows except me. Little holes in my reality to remind me I was missing for a while.

“Taylor Swift put out a new album?” I ask, listening to the new tune that started playing.

Leif shoots me a grin. “Should have known you were a Swifty.”

“Leave Tay Tay alone,” Ed joins in with a smirk. And to think Leif called me judgmental.

“She’s a fine musician and songwriter,” says Art, my new hero.

“Of course she is. And yes, Anna, she did. Two albums, in fact.” Leif again wipes away the blood rising to the surface on the tattoo. “About eight or nine months back.”

I nod.

“Who’s talking smack about Taylor?” asks Tessa, striding back into the room.

“No one,” says Ed, face suddenly serious.

“We wouldn’t dare,” adds Leif. What a clown.

Nina Simone comes on next and Tessa hums along, swinging her hips to the music. She’s wearing a pair of yellow loafers I’d kill to own. Along with a matching ’50s-style tight sweater and artfully ripped jeans. I dream of being this cool. Of wearing bright colors and daring to stand out.

“I fired the new receptionist,” says Tessa, apropos of nothing. “Thinking we were friends, he confided in me that he was just too hung over to join us today.”

Ed shakes his head. “Fuck’s sake. Why is this so hard?”

Leif’s brow wrinkles into the most serious of frowns. Tessa gives his shoulder a squeeze in passing and whispers, “Not your fault. Let it go.”

Curious.

“We’ll find someone eventually,” Tessa says in a louder tone.

Art’s session finishes with smiles and manly back slapping, then Leif cleans up his area. This is more involved than I’d imagined. But then they are dealing with blood and ink and other fluids.

“Do you mind a short walk?” he asks as we head out into the afternoon sun. “Otherwise I can call a car?”

“No,” I say. “A walk would be nice if we can take it slow.”

Despite the long legs, he sets a pace I can manage just fine. Side by side, in perfect sync, we wander along, me hanging onto my purse strap and scotch. Him with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. The breeze is cool, but the sun is warm. Behind the cover of my sunglasses, I can pretty much watch him to my heart’s content. Catalogue the multitude of ways in which he’s different from Ryan. Which is something I probably shouldn’t do, but here we are.

While my ex strides through the world toward his destination with great purpose, Leif is content to amble and take everything in. The sky, the buildings and trees, the people wandering by. He even smiles and raises a hand in greeting to some. The walk itself is an event for him, a moment to be cherished. He is a happy, open sort of person. Or at least, he gives off that impression.

While Ryan stood tall, proud, and upright, taking up as much room as possible, Leif slouches in an oddly graceful manner. Ryan reveled in being busy; our life was always planned to the nth. Work dinners, get-togethers, family outings, and so on. Something always seemed to be happening. Maybe it’s why my new life is so jarring. The silence between medical appointments. The emptiness of my calendar. I need to get a life. A new one.

“Got much going on this afternoon?” I ask, making conversation.

“No. Had a cancellation.” He shrugs. “Figured I’d chill.”

So they’re basically complete opposites. Day and night, sun and moon, et cetera.

“Care to chill with me?” he asks with a smile.

“Sure. That’d be great.”

A nod. “Cool.”

Ryan hated last-minute plans or alterations, while Leif seems content to live life on the fly. It’s official, the two men couldn’t be more different. Also, I need to stop comparing them.

“You’re frowning,” says Leif. “Why is that?”

I scrunch up my face. “Oh. Ah . . .”

“Be honest,” he chides.

“I was thinking deep thoughts about my soon-to-be ex-husband’s character.”

He scratches his stubble. “Yeah, see, this is difficult for me. Because I kind of want to high-five you for dumping the asshole. And make no mistake, he is an asshole and completely undeserving of you. But on the other hand, you had your heart stomped on by that whole situation and I don’t want to be an insensitive dick.”

I frown. “Yeah.”

He bops his head like he’s listening to music. Or just agreeing with himself. “You seem like a smart woman who’s got it together. So I’m sure he wasn’t always a complete cock splash. At least, I hope not.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“But it sounds like it’s probably time now to catapult that marriage into the sun.”

“This is true.” I heavy sigh. “You know, I used to think we were perfect. It’s kind of been a wake-up call to find out that we were far from it.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just cocks his head to let me know he’s listening.

“We used to coordinate outfits and finish each other’s sentences and all that annoying couple stuff.”

A grunt.

“Now I just wonder if our wardrobes were boring, if we never had an original thought between us, and perhaps urgently needed to each get a life irrespective of the other,” I say. “I used to think his shortcomings were so cute. The way he’d carry on and on about work stuff. How he’d scream at the television during football games. Guess everyone’s cute and funny until they’re not.”

“The veil has been lifted.”

“Indeed.”

“Relationships.” His broad shoulders deflate. “What can you do?”

“I take it they’re not your thing?”

He sighs. “That’s a conversation that needs to be accompanied by alcohol.”

“Got it.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t make it to your birthday bash,” he says, face tense. “I, um . . . I’m not much into group things at the moment. But I hope it was a good day and everything.”

“Sure. Thanks.” That Mom invited him is news to me. Though she knew I’d been to see him, so I guess her inviting him makes sense. Why he’s against group events, I have no idea. But it’s not like they’re my thing right now either. People en masse are a problem. Their opinions and expectations and just how generally overwhelming it can all be.

We wander through downtown, the city bustling around us. It’s nice to be out amongst it all. I’m grateful for so many things these days. Maybe that’s the main difference between old me and new me. New me knows what it’s like to lose your independence. New me has been through some shit.

A few blocks away from the water we turn into a brightly painted bar in an old building. The booths have scarred old wooden tables and teal leather bench seats. It’s cool. Behind the bar, a tattooed woman with a braid of gray hair hollers hello to Leif and he blows her a kiss. Obviously he’s a regular. We grab a booth near the back.

“What do you suggest?” I ask, checking out the menu.

Head cocked, he asks, “May I be so bold as to order for both of us?”

“Go ahead.”

“Any allergies or strong dislikes?”

“I don’t like pickles.”

“You don’t like pickles? Weirdo.” He turns in his seat, waving a hand at a passing waiter. “Two of my regular, please, Andi. And may I say you’re looking particularly radiant today.”

The lady smiles. “Why thank you, Leif.”

“What do you have on your burger if you don’t have pickles?” Leif asks, making himself comfortable. Which apparently means reorganizing the salt and pepper shakers, straightening the cutlery, and smoothing down the white paper napkin. The man is a fiddler.

“Meat, cheese, ketchup,” I say. “The normal things.”

“But pickles are a normal thing.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Pickles are a normal thing to take off hamburgers, not put on them.”

“Huh.”

“What are your allergies and strong dislikes?”

“Mint,” he says. “I hate that shit.”

“You don’t eat Mint Oreos? That’s so sad. How about mint chip ice cream?”

“Yuck.”

“What are you even doing with your life, Leif?”

“Living it happily mint free, is what I’m doing.”

“We both hate green food items,” I say. “Interesting.”

“It’s like we were always meant to be together.” He gives me a wink to show he’s joking. “What’s your stance on Kermit the Frog, though?”

“He seems like a cool dude. I mean, he plays the banjo. That’s pretty great.”

“It is indeed. So it’s not the color green, just certain foodstuffs. Okay. I can live with that,” he says. “How are you taking to the single life?”

“I haven’t been single in so long.” My shoulders slump. “Oh, God, I’m going to have to register for a dating app. I’m actually going to have to go out and meet new people. That’s so depressing and scary.”

“No,” he drawls. “To the contrary. It’s an exciting new adventure in the life of Anna.”

“Are you saying that to try and make me feel better or just pointing out my general negativity and shitty attitude?”

He grins.

Two ridiculously large and ornate beverages are placed in from of us. I’d guesstimate them to be about a quarter of a gallon of Bloody Mary cocktail topped off with an entire and intact lobster roll balancing on top of the glass.

I stare in wonder. Or horror.

“Aren’t they magnificent?” asks Leif, clearly in awe of our lunch.

“This is your usual?”

“Every Saturday without fail. It’s how I celebrate the upcoming weekend since I get Sunday and Monday off.” His smile is beatific, there is no other word. The man is clearly experiencing his version of nirvana in this battered old booth. “Normally I’m here on my own. Sometimes Ed joins in. His wife Clem now and then too. But she just has the fried oyster bun and a beer, the coward.”

“How do I even . . . what do I do with this?”

Leif laughs. He does that a lot.

Andi returns with a couple of plates and, thank God, the dismantling process can begin. I carefully remove the skewers holding the lobster roll in place and put it on a plate. The wedge of lemon comes down too. I stir up the mixture with the celery stick and skewered olives. Never has a beverage been garnished to such a degree. Now I can actually reach the edge of the glass to take a gulp. And promptly cough a lung up. That’s a lot of vodka. No small amount of cracked pepper in there either.

“Too much Tabasco sauce?” asks Leif, reaching to pat me gently on the back.

“Is that what’s in it?”

“You never had a Bloody Mary before?”

“No.”

He puts a hand to his heart. “Aw. I’m proud to be bringing you this new and wonderful experience.”

“This is hands down the strangest lunch I’ve ever eaten. Drunk. Whatever.”

“Well, you have seven months of living to make up for,” he says. “And I am here to help.”

I honestly don’t know when the last time I laughed was. But I’m laughing now. “You said the conversation regarding you and relationships required alcohol. Seems we’ve met that requirement. Go for it.”

The smile swiftly disappears from his face. “I dated the woman who tried to kill my sister-in-law.”

I have nothing.

“She was the receptionist at the tattoo shop. Obsessed with Ed. So she tried to kill Clem to get her out of the way. Tried twice, actually. The first time she hit her over the head with a bottle and gave her amnesia. The second time she stabbed her. Clem’s lucky to be alive.” His fingers beat out a frantic beat against the table. “I was staying with them and she . . . ah . . . she used me to get close to them.”

Oh no.“Leif.”

“This was about a year ago,” he reports, matter-of-factly. “Live and learn, huh?”

I cover his hand with mine. I’m not really a touchy-feely person, but this is important.

“Yeah. So I have terrible taste in women. It’s why I don’t date anymore.”

“Hey,” I say. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I was sleeping with her, Anna. Of course I should have known.”

“Because you’re a trained psychologist with years of experience sufficient to recognize a psychopath, right?” I give his fingers a squeeze. “Leif, people like that are genius at manipulating and hiding who they are. What they are. They have to be to survive.”

He slips his hand out from beneath mine, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“Does Clem blame you?” I ask.

“She’s way too nice for that.”

“How about your brother?”

“No.”

“Just you then.”

“Yes.” His tone is hard. But at least he’s looking at me again.

“I’m so angry that she used you and hurt you.”

He grunts dismissively. As if his pain meant nothing.

“Sounds like we’ve both been screwed over,” I say. “So let’s both be sensible, rational adults and keep the blame where it belongs, on the people who did the wrong damn thing. Because anything else is pure lunacy.”

His lips flatline in displeasure.

I take another sip of the Bloody Mary. “Oh God, this is like gazpacho gone wrong.”

Leif gives me a look.

“If you’re waiting for me to feed into your I’m-the-worst diatribe then you’ll be waiting a long time.”

Nothing from him.

“Is that why you tend to hang out on your own these days?” I ask. “Worried about what people will think?”

He shrugs.

It’s strange. He seems like such an outgoing, friendly guy. The last person you’d expect to hide away from the world.

I carefully pick up the lobster roll and take a bite. Oh my, God. Perfection. It totally makes up for the bizarre drink and over-the-top presentation.

“You know, you look all sweet and polite, but you’re actually kind of a hard-ass,” he says at last.

I wipe my mouth on the napkin before speaking. “I care about my friends. That’s all.”

“What was your friend’s name?”

“The one who slept with my soon-to-be ex-husband?”

“Yeah. That one.”

“Celine.”

He nods. “Celine was a moron.”

My smile is slow to come, but genuine. “Thank you.”